


Burning House

by this_is_how_we_get_ants



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Character Death, Flashbacks, Funeral, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, Memories, Til the End of the Line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 21:51:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5801557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_how_we_get_ants/pseuds/this_is_how_we_get_ants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted to tell them all that this wasn’t right, that there had been some kind of terrible mistake.  Instead he nodded and pressed his lips together, accepting their sympathy without examining it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning House

**Author's Note:**

> I've been listening to 'Burning House' by Cam on a loop lately. So a couple of hours, several repeats of that song, and viola! This happened.

The lilies felt cold in his hands. The voices sounded dull in his ears. The cold tasted bitter on his tongue. And everything else was numb.

  
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everyone said that, he was sure, but he still believed it with all of his being. Or at least he would, if he could hold onto any thoughts long enough to believe in anything. But whenever anyone smiled sympathetically at him, patted his shoulder, murmured something generically sympathetic to him his first thought was ‘it’s not supposed to be like this’. He wanted to tell them all that this wasn’t right, that there had been some kind of terrible mistake. Instead he nodded and pressed his lips together, accepting their sympathy without really examining it.

  
When it was time, he stepped forward. His movements were mechanical, his face unbreakable stone, his thoughts nonexistent. He simply walked to the gaping, methodically created wound in the ground and stood right along the edge. The wood gleamed under the empty sunlight. He glanced at the white bloom in his hand. But it didn’t look like his hand, and the flower didn’t look real. It looked too white, too perfect, and the hand holding it looked awkward and out of place. So he did the only thing he could; he held his hand over the pit and watched the flower fall until it rested atop the dark wood.

  
It was time to go. So he did. But when they arrived back at the church he slipped away. He found his car in the parking lot and slid behind the wheel.

  
The sun was just starting to set when he arrived. He cut the engine and stepped out of the car. For a moment he just stood, eyes closed, and breathed deeply. Familiar scents filled his nose and brought a slideshow of images to the surface of his mind. He smiled softly against them. It was alright. Everything was just how it was supposed to be.  
He shut the car door softly and stepped forward, the brittle grass crackling under his shoes. Leaves fell from the tree above him, and he plucked a shriveled brown one off of his jacket. It crumbled in his hands and he let it fall to the ground where it joined its fallen brethren. He reached out and ran a hand along the rough bark.

  
Laughter filled the air and he watched as two familiar figures chased each other around throwing handfuls of leaves at one another. He feinted left waiting as the other took the bait and then grabbing him. His victim laughed and struggled as he stuffed a handful of leaves down his shirt. The man with the brown hair suddenly spun around and tackled him to the ground. They rolled around, laughing like maniacs and shoving leaves in each other’s faces until he was on top and pinned the other’s wrists against the ground. Slate eyes looked into his own and warmed his heart. Their lips met and everything else faded away.

  
It was summer and the brown haired man was standing with one hand on his hip, holding a hammer, and the other scratching his eyebrow thoughtfully. There was a tangled mess of fabric lying in a wad on the ground and an open toolbox at the foot of the old tree. He watched as the man frowned, looking between the tree, the fabric, and his hammer in consternation. Footsteps approached and he was doubled over laughing, while the other man tried to explain the mess through exaggerated gestures. Finally they were both laughing, leaning into each other and catching their breath only to lock gazes and lose it all over again. The project was ultimately abandoned as they walked his arm around the other, away from the trees.

  
A breeze blew through his suit jacket and he shivered slightly, the image dissipating instantly. He stared at the bark of the tree for another long moment before letting his hand slide down and shoving it back into his pocket. Looking up, he could see the structure in front of him. Streaks of orange and purple highlighted the sky behind it.  
He blinked and then he saw the two of them smiling like idiots as they held hands and loped across the lawn and up the front steps. Both of them were dressed in black tuxes, their ties loose around their necks. They looked slightly disheveled, but the happiness in their faces radiated across the distance straight into his heart. As he watched, he grinned wickedly at his partner before swooping him up bridal style. Laughter erupted and his partner was slapping him playfully on the shoulder until he leaned down and kissed him firmly on the lips. He tucked a strand of brown hair behind his ear, and reached for his hand. A gold band glinted in the starlight and he lifted it to his mouth with a soft kiss. They swept across the threshold and disappeared into the house.

  
The familiar pull hit him, and he trudged towards the house. When he crossed the threshold he saw the two of them in the kitchen through a doorway on his right. Something was simmering in a pot on the stove. He watched himself being chased around the room, carefully dodging the vicious wooden spoon that pursued him relentlessly. The man attached to the spoon was yelling something indistinct, but his eyes betrayed his amusement.

  
He smiled before walking to the staircase and resting his hand on the banister. Gray blue eyes flashed angrily and an avalanche in the form of blankets and a pillow tumbled down the stairs and fell at his feet. Tears tracked down the face at the top of the stairs as he spit angry words that were inaudible. At the base of the staircase, he watched himself reach out feebly before the man at the top of the stairs yelled something and stomped away.

  
In the living room to the left of the stairs, he saw the two of them curled up on the old corduroy couch that they both hated. He was holding his partner, running a hand through tangled brown hair. Lying on his lap, tears covering his face, shaky hands held tightly to a picture that was crinkled slightly around the edges. Two black suit coats were lying discarded on the chair just inside the door. Shiny dress shoes, caked with a bit of fresh dirt, lay on the rug. There was a stack of greeting cards on the coffee table, and several floral arrangements littering the floor behind the sofa.

  
As he walked around the house, countless other memories flitted through his mind. The good ones: full of smiles, laughter, and love. The bad ones: full of tears, pain, and still love. Finally he was back on the front porch. Boards protested under his feet, bowing dangerously, and he stepped down to the safety of the dying grass. He found that even though the sun had long since set and the chill in the air had become more pronounced there was nowhere else that he wanted to be.

  
So he dropped down onto the cold, hard ground and folded his legs. In front of him, the carcass of the old house groaned and shifted, the smell of smoke still curling heavily in the air. Above him, the moon cast a soft light over the burnt ruins. It looked eerie and haunted, the blackened beams, the piles of ash on the ground, the ghosts of furniture lost to the flames. But when he closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and let his mind wander; nothing had changed.

  
Eventually he would have to leave. People would have noticed his absence at the reception. He knew that Sam would have covered for him; they all would have. But he also knew that they would come here looking for him soon, and he couldn’t have that. They didn’t belong here because if they came here, wearing their dark clothes and somber expressions, he would never be able to come back. This sanctuary would be lost to him, and he just didn’t think he could bear that loss.

  
So he heaved himself up to his feet, his joints protesting against the cold that had seeped into his bones. He took one last long look at the place he had once called his home. For just a moment he could see it so clearly: two figures on a porch swing their gnarled hands resting atop each other between them. They gazed at the stars, their hair white, their skin wrinkled and turned to each other briefly smiling soft, knowing smiles. Flames licked up over the image until the two old men disappeared and the promises that had once been held in that sturdy wood were gone, too. All that was left was ghosts.

  
As he drove away, the property fading in the cloud of dust that trailed him, a scream shadowed him. Sweat poured through the fabric of his suit as searing heat bit at him from every direction. His throat dried out, the peppery burn of smoke choking him. And finally, tears pricked his eyes. Though he tried to squint against them, they poured free and flowed in endless rivers down his face.

  
When they found him, he was resting his head against the pristine slab of stone. Sam and Natasha came towards him, the rest hovering behind, hands stuffed awkwardly in their coats, eyes glittering with concern. Natasha leaned down and whispered something in Russian to the stone before turning to Steve and forcing him to meet her gaze. He nodded at her, and looked up to find Sam extending him a hand.

  
They gave him a moment to say goodbye, heading back to the rumbling engines of the cars they had arrived in. He was thankful for them, and he hoped they knew that. Doors slammed and engines rumbled. He waited another minute before placing a hand atop the stone. It was cold to his touch, and there was an answering cold deep inside his heart. With a heavy, shaky breath he looked down at the words engraved there, tracing them with his eyes even though he already had them memorized.

  
“This isn’t the end of the line, Buck. You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he whispered before walking to the car where Natasha and Sam were waiting patiently.

  
_James Buchanan Barnes                  Steven Grant Rogers_

_1982-2015                                     1981-_

  
_'Til the end of the line_


End file.
